


it starts with a kiss

by raincityruckus



Series: a lifetime of beginnings [1]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, reading room smut, sigtryggr's a giver, you can't prove it's not show canon compliant through 4.10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25604818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raincityruckus/pseuds/raincityruckus
Summary: “Sigtryggr, stop.”He stops where he is, shifting his forward momentum into a turn. His arms are back behind him, one hand clasped around the other wrist and she drinks in the sight of him in black leather armor, his casually confident stance. The weapons he never bothered to take off. The awareness of that sends a latent snake of heat coiling up her spine.“What was that?” she catches her lip between her teeth and can still taste his mouth.
Relationships: Sigtryggr Ivarsson/Stiorra
Series: a lifetime of beginnings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867564
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76





	it starts with a kiss

“What are you doing?”

Uncertainty pitches her voice up, turns it breathy and insubstantial. But if she’s breathless it’s only because there’s no air left between them. His hands press his weight down into the edge of the table, trapping her in the space between his arms. The table creaks with his added weight and there is nowhere for her to back up. 

His face is impassive, inscrutable. If it wasn’t for the heat behind his eyes she’d think him unaffected. 

His skin is warm under her palms when her hands find his bare arms. The soft touch stills him midmotion. His lips part on a pant, flashing teeth and her breath hitches. Stiorra’s heart beats in her throat. When one breath passes, two, the corner of his mouth twitches with what might at another time have been a smile. 

His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide only a sliver of blue remains. There is a predator in his patience, and for the first time Stiorra feels like she’s in its sights. He gives a slow, lazy blink and his weight rocks back. The table shifts under her with the loss and she knows that she should push him back. Pull her hands away at least. 

Her hands fall, palms skimming down hard muscle and warm skin, dragging on worn leather. Her fingers skim the long bones of his hand and she is almost free when he curls his fingers into hers, tangling them before the connection is broken. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Sigtryggr says, patient. Dangerous. He tugs at her fingers, pulls her weight forward until she is rocked forward on her toes. Each breath brings her a whisper from touching him. His head dips and his breath catches, “tell me to stop.”

She’s going to. Any moment now she’s going to. But he’s pulled all the air from the room and then his mouth is brushing her hair line, her brow. His beard is a tickle against her skin and his nose bumps against hers. She feels her heart beat like a hammer behind her lungs.

There is another pause while he waits for the words that aren’t coming.

There is nothing uncertain about his kiss when his mouth finds hers. He is patient in that too, insistent and Stiorra feels her self pant under his onslaught. That’s all the invitation he needs to sweep his tongue past her lips. She doesn’t even realize he’s still got her hands until he uses them to pull her flush into his body, curl her arms around him. She finds purchase on the worn black leather of his armor. She feels his breath on her parted lips when he presses his forehead into hers and she’s somewhat comforted to know his breathing is ragged as hers. 

The trail of his fingers up the long bones of her hands, back over her arms sends chills down her spine as he retraces the path she took down his arms. He doesn’t stop at her shoulders though. Stiorra makes a sound from low in her throat when his fingers curl into her hair, his palms cupping her jaw. He does smile then, wide and wild and full of teeth. It makes the kiss messy, all wrong angles. None of that stops her from curling her hands into his armour, rolling her weight up onto her toes to close the distance between them. When his fingers flex in her hair, tugging enough it aches she catches his lip between her teeth in retaliation. She nips sharply at the full swell of his lip and is rewarded with a snarl. 

The kiss breaks and for a held breath Stiorra thinks he’s going to be angry. 

He flashes teeth. 

“She is a Dane,” he accuses, fond and grinning. He doesn’t let her get a word in edgewise before he captures her mouth again. 

This time there’s no hesitance, no doubt. His lips crash against hers and for the first time since reaching Winchester, Stiorra feels urgency in him. His kiss is eager, demanding, lips and teeth and tongue until she is pressed half bent back against the reading table. He breaks the kiss with a rough sound and her lips still tingle. His hands flex on her jaw and his breath comes rough and ragged. His gaze is locked on her mouth and when her tongue wets the bow of her lips his lip curls in a sneer his jaw tipping as he snaps at her. There is nothing playful about the gesture, no game in his eyes when they find hers. He bites back on his molars, the muscle under his scar jumps.

“Sigtryggr,” she’s amazed she gets the words out at all, the heat in his gaze turns them to ash in her mouth and she feels sluggish, stupid. Each breath is deep and heavy, her skin tingling from the roots of her hair to the base of her spine. His hands fit over her hips and he lifts her up to the table, stepping into the space between her thighs. 

“Tell me to stop,” he says, one hand coming up to cup her jaw. His thumb taps the corner of her lips where his twitch when he wants to smile and thinks he shouldn’t.

She shakes her head, not trusting her voice and for a moment his brows draw together, eyelids falling closed as he fights for composure. His thumb brushes her lip and Stiorra decides she doesn’t like the way she can feel him distancing himself. She catches his thumb between her teeth, biting down meanly. His eyes snap open and he gives her a look that is almost pleading before his mouth finds hers again. It’s just a brush of his lips over hers that leaves her startled and unsatisfied. 

“What are you doing?” she hisses when he drops to his knees in the space between her legs. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, one eyebrow arching in a challenge. 

His fingers hook into the waist of her trousers and with a sharp tug he has them down to her knees. It wrenches a gasp from her lips and her eyes go wide as he strips them from her. Her fingers curl around the edge of the table, knuckles going white as he wraps one large hand around her ankle. His head turns and he brushes his mouth against her thigh, his beard tickling the sensitive skin and making her muscle jump. In the failing light his closed eyes make a smudge of his lashes on his skin. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, the words spoken in the skin of her thigh as his hands cup the outside of her legs. The air is cool on her bare skin and her toes stretch, not finding the floor. Stiorra should say yes. She releases her grip on the table one finger at a time, lifting one hand to brush her fingers down the scar that cuts across his eye. The skin is puckered under her finger tip and when his eyes open she feels the brush of his lashes tickling her. On his knees between her legs Sigtryggr turns his head to brush her finger tips with his mouth, “I can stop.”

“I know,” she says and it takes her two tries to get the words out, “I don’t want you to.”

He presses his smile against her thigh, mouthing his way up her sensitive skin until she needs to put her hand back on the table for support. Her elbows buckle when his mouth slides against his destination between her thighs. She squeezes her eyes shut so tight she sees stars. Or maybe that the lash of his tongue between the slick folds of her sex. He huffs a laugh directly against her hypersensitive flesh and pulls a whimper from her. 

One hand clamps fiercely over her mouth, muffling the broken noises he coaxes from her throat with each pass of his tongue. By the time he is circling the point of his tongue tight on the bundle of nerves that sends heat flashing up her spine, Stiorra’s other hand is fisted in the tangle of his auburn hair. Only his grip on her hips, her thighs practically over his shoulders, keeps her from jerking right up off the table when he sucks down hard right where the lightning prickle of pleasure is centered. 

Something hot and burning rips open inside of her and Stiorra falls back into it. Her spine arches and her grip on his hair goes vicious as he teases his tongue over her in brutal lashes that drago out every hot whip of pleasure. She’s not sure if she’s gone blind or closed her eyes but for a long time there is nothing but the feeling of Sigtryggr’s mouth on her and an empty void of pleasure that racks her. 

She only realizes she’s bitten down on her hand afterwards, when her jaw is stiff and her hand aches with the perfect indents of her teeth. 

He gentles her through it, his mouth brushing over her abdomen as his calloused fingers scrape soothingly down the back of her trembling thighs. He doesn’t move until she remembers how to breathe, until she blinks up at the ceiling and realizes that they’ve lost almost all the light. It’s Sigtryggr who rights her clothes, helps her dress again. Which seems fair since he’s the one who tossed her pants halfway across the room. He brushes his fingers over the ring of teeth she left in her hand and his smirk goes dark and male and self satisfied. Though it isn’t uncomfortable, Stiorra doesn’t know what to say to break the silence that stretches between them. His mouth bumps against her hairline and he steps back. He’s almost at the door when she finds the word she hadn’t been able to say all night.

“Sigtryggr, stop.” 

He stops where he is, shifting his forward momentum into a turn. His arms are back behind him, one hand clasped around the other wrist and she drinks in the sight of him in black leather armor, his casually confident stance. The weapons he never bothered to take off. The awareness of that sends a latent snake of heat coiling up her spine.

“What was that?” she catches her lip between her teeth and can still taste his mouth.

The impassive mask of his face cracks and his eyes crinkle with the edges of his smile as he tips his head to the side. His gaze rakes up her body where she perches on the edge of the table, lingering on her face. 

“If you say a kiss I’ll…” Scream? Throw something? Stiorra lets the threat drift off. She needs an answer, a real one. Somewhat predictably the threat makes his smile go wolfish in the near dark of the room, one hand moves to the pommel of sword, not a threat of his own, just a reminder to himself that it’s there. Stiorra cuts him off when he opens his mouth, rolling her eyes, “I know, I know, you see a Dane in me.”

“Call it a beginning,” he says instead and gives her a half bow before he unlocks the door, gets almost all the way out before he turns. His eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen, one hand wrapped around the edge of the door, “Good night, Stiorra.”

“Good night, Sigtryggr,” she says, like this has been in any way normal. When the door closes she lets herself collapse back. Falls so hard she thumps her head back on the solid wood of the table and it aches. 

A smile still stretches her mouth so wide her cheeks ache and she can’t even be bothered to get up and light a candle. A beginning then.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I refuse be held responsible for my actions when canon includes Sigtryggr giving Stiorra the softest eyes in the known world after knowing her for negative six seconds. 


End file.
